Just Like His Brother
by celinenaville
Summary: ONE-SHOT. "Yeah, because I've been following you around my entire life. I mean, I've been looking up to you since I was four, Dean. Studying you, trying to be just like my big brother." Sam's been watching him. *COMPLETED*
The first time Sam saw Dean hurl himself into a fight was when he was eleven and Dean was fifteen. There were three of them-young teenagers in leather and high top sneakers. Sam, as usual, seemed to have an invisible target on his back. Shy and unresponsive, walking alone after school to the motel. Bad section of town, red backpack slung over his shoulder. He tried to avoid eye contact, deflect their obvious attempts to taunt him. What they wanted from him was a mystery. The whole interaction seemed to be a game, a past time- like kicking a cat or pulling the wings off of flies. Activities the three of them probably enjoyed.

The minute one of them touched Sam- a rough push that sent him staggering backwards to fall on his ass- Dean appeared out of nowhere. All loud threats and fists and righteous anger so intense he had them fleeing before Sam fully understood what the hell had happened. Dean offered Sam his hand with an evaluating frown. "You okay, Sammy?"

Sam looked into the face of his big brother. Dean's amulet swung freely from his neck as he bent over to pull him to his feet. "You tell me if those punks ever bother you again. I'll rip their freaking lungs out."

Sam stood up shakily and nodded.

Dean flung his arm around his brother. "Come on, Punching Bag, let's go get an ice cream at the diner down the road."

Sam studied Dean's profile and saw a hero. He wanted be just like his big brother.

* * *

Sam was sixteen and Dean was twenty. They were in an artsy lounge attached to a trendy little restaurant. The type of place that served fancy drinks and organic food. The type of place that Dean usually tried to avoid. But here they were, making use of Dean's fake ID in the late hours. His brother had followed in a gaggle of beautiful young college girls like a bloodhound on a trail and cajoled Sam into staying with promises of food.

Sam sat at a high top table with an abandoned drink of Dean's and a chicken wrap, watching his brother work his magic. Dean could light up a room with his charisma. It was a gift. His smile, his attitude, his confidence. He batted a thousand almost every time. He hardly ever struck out. He's sure wasn't striking out now. Sam could see the covert glances from women as Dean moved through the crowd. Some of the glances weren't so covert. A few girls whispered to their friends, eyeing him and giggling.

Dean had zeroed in on a leggy blonde and in no time he had her smiling and leaning into him. She touched his arm. Once, twice, tossed her hair. Looked at him with bedroom eyes. Dean took her arm and they stood up. He looked around to Sam and mouthed 'I'll be right back.' Then winked.

Sam shook his head and smiled with a blush. He, himself, could barely talk to a girl. He wanted to be just like his big brother.

* * *

The first time Sam saw Dean truly hungover was when Sam was seventeen and Dean was twenty-two. Dean had over indulged in drinking the night before and had spent the better part of the morning curled over the toilet wretching. Sharing the close motel room quarters meant that Sam had to listen to every agonizing whimper and heave until Dean staggered out and collapsed onto the bed. Thank God Dad wasn't there or he would have kicked his eldest son's ass.

"Don't drink so much the next time, dumbass."

Dean rolled over to look at him. There was a flash of something a little lonely and sad in his eye but then he smiled. "Paying for it now, but had fun, Sammy," he whispered in a voice that sounded like sandpaper. "Laughter, mayhem, women. Good times."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that."

"Shut up... gotta sleep this off. Got to be on my feet again in a few hours."

He'd _done_ it too. Recovered. Sprung up, went on a hunt with their father. None the worse for wear. Did it again a few days later. He was amazing. Sam kind of wanted to be like his big brother.

* * *

The first time Sam saw Dean hurl himself into the path of an oncoming monster, he was almost eighteen and Dean was twenty-three. His brother tackled it with a reckless abandon born of too much alcohol and an underlying hint of self-sacrifice. In the end, Dean had gotten away with a few broken ribs, a split lip and a sprained ankle. But Sam had watched in horror while Dean took the brunt of a blow that sent him careening into the side of a headstone like a rag doll.

Despite that, his bum rush had buried a knife deep into the carotid artery of the witch and an arterial spray wet the grass around them. Covered in blood like a Jackson Pollack painting, Dean groaned and then looked up at Sammy with a pained smile. His eyes held a glint of something fierce in them, almost a madness.

In that moment, Sam was genuinely _afraid_ to grow up and be just like his big brother.

He left for Stanford two months later.


End file.
